Classic Poem

Cease, anxious World, your fruitless pain
To grasp forbidden store;
Your studied labors shall prove vain,
Your alchemy unblest,
Whilst seeds of far more precious ore
Are ripened in my breast.

My breast, the forge of happier love,
Where my Lucinda lives;
And the rich stock does so improve
As she her art employs,
That every smile and touch she gives
Turns all to golden joys.

Since then we can such treasures raise,
Let's no expense refuse;
In love let's lay out all our days —
How can we e'er be poor,
When every blessing that we use
Begets a thousand more?